In April, invitations from the Rome Chess Club flew in like snowflakes.
Not in a personal capacity, but in the official name of the club—they invited “Miss Cerydra” to participate in the Spring Open, even expressing a willingness to set up a special exhibition match for her.
Cerydra read the invitations one by one, then folded them neatly and put them into a drawer.
She accepted two of them and declined the rest.
Professor Ferrari asked her what the basis for her selection was.
“Among the lists of participants for these three matches,” Cerydra said, “there are people I want to observe.” The old professor did not ask again.
The first match was in mid-April, against the champion of the Milan Chess Club, a young engineer named Enrico Fermi—same surname as that Professor Fermi, but no relation.
He was twenty-seven, wore round-rimmed glasses, had slender fingers, and moved his pieces extremely quickly.
Cerydra played forty-one moves against him and won.
After the match, Professor Fermi said something to the reporters, which was published in the next day’s newspaper: “Her Chess is like mathematics.
Clean, precise, every piece is in the position it should be.
I have never seen such Chess.” The second match was in May, against the founder of the Naples Chess Club, the nearly seventy-year-old Antonio Scarlatti.
This old gentleman had a long white beard, spoke slowly, and played Chess slowly as well.
He would think for a long time before every move, then push the piece with slightly trembling fingers, as if performing some sacred ritual.
Cerydra played with him for a full three hours, eventually winning with an advantage of one bishop and one pawn.
After the match, Scarlatti stood up and bowed to her in front of everyone.
“Your Highness,” he said, “I have played Chess for sixty years, and I have never seen anyone who respects the chessboard like you do.” Cerydra also stood up and returned the gesture.
“You are the same,” she said, and Scarlatti’s eyes turned red.
In late June, a report was delivered to the Palazzo Venezia.
That was Mussolini’s office location.
In the huge office, the marble floor was polished to a mirror shine, and the flags of Italy and the Fascist Party hung on the walls.
Behind the desk, Mussolini sat in a high-backed chair, with a brown-covered folder spread out on the desk in front of him.
He opened the first page.
It was a photograph, taken in the hall of the Rome Chess Club, a white-haired, blue-eyed girl sitting in front of a chessboard, with a cane leaning against the edge of the table.
The angle of the photo was very good, capturing the moment she moved a piece—fingers hovering above the board, the moment before touching the piece.
Short white hair hung on both sides of her cheeks, and the blue at the tips of her hair was clearly visible.
Her expression was calm as water, her gaze focused, as if she were having some silent conversation with the chessboard.
Below the photo was a line of handwritten notes: Youngest daughter of King Victor Emmanuel III, Princess Cerydra, born May 31, 1915, fourteen years old.
Mussolini turned to the second page.
This was a detailed observation report, recording all public Chess events Cerydra had participated in since February 1929.
The opponent of each match, the process of the game, words and deeds after the match, and media reports were all carefully recorded.
The author of the report was clearly someone who understood Chess—he conducted a detailed analysis of Cerydra’s Chess style, using many Chess terms that Mussolini did not understand.
But the conclusion part of the report was written in language he could understand.
“The subject’s Chess style is extremely unique, and her technique has reached the top level in Italy, but what is more worthy of attention is the way of thinking she displays when playing.
The subject is adept at discerning the behavioral patterns of opponents in a very short time and predicting their subsequent choices accordingly.
This ability is equally applicable in scenarios outside the chessboard.
According to observations, the subject rarely takes the initiative to speak in social situations, but maintains long-term attention to everyone she talks to.
She remembers every detail the other party has said.
Preliminary assessment: The subject possesses observation and pattern recognition abilities far exceeding her peers, and possesses extremely strong emotional control—the attitude she displays when winning does not conform to the normal reactions of any peer.” Mussolini turned to the third page.
“The subject’s image in the public is currently extremely positive.
The media portrays her as a ‘Chess genius’ and the ‘Pearl of Savoy’, and the public’s favorability towards her is very high.
Talk of using her as a symbolic figure has begun to appear in royalist circles.
An anonymous nobleman stated in an interview:’She reminds us of what the House of Savoy used to be like.'” Mussolini’s finger stopped on that line.
“Recommendation: Continue to observe.
Currently, the subject’s behavior is limited to Chess events; no signs of any political activity have been found.
She seems to be just a princess who ‘only cares about the Chess game’.
It is impossible to determine whether this is due to her personality or deliberate concealment.
If it is the latter, it needs to be re-evaluated.” Mussolini closed the folder.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at the huge mural on the ceiling—it was drawn by someone Mussolini himself commissioned, depicting the triumphal scene of ancient Rome.
Caesar stood on a chariot, accepting the coronation of the Senate.
The face of Caesar in the painting was blurry, but his posture was majestic, like a myth being born.
He suddenly remembered what a party colleague who had returned from the Rome Chess Club said to him a few days ago.
“Leader, that little princess is very interesting.
She is like a conqueror on the chessboard, but outside the chessboard, she is just a pretty little girl.
She smiles just right, speaks just right, not too much, not too little.
Everyone likes her, but no one thinks she is scary.” “What do you think?” Mussolini asked at the time.
The colleague was silent for a while.
“I think that a fourteen-year-old girl being able to make everyone like her without making them feel she is scary, that fact itself is a little scary.” Mussolini did not speak.
Now, he sat in the empty office, with the brown-covered folder in front of him, and that photograph appeared in his mind—the white-haired, blue-eyed girl, her hand hovering above the chessboard, about to move.
He had seen too many people.
Fanatical, fawning, fearful, ambitious, stupid, smart.
He knew how to use every kind of person.
But this fourteen-year-old princess—she was not in any category he was familiar with.
But she was just a Chess player, a little daughter pampered by her father and brother.
Mussolini put the folder into the drawer on the right side of his desk.
That drawer contained files he needed to “continue to observe”.